Remembering the Great Sommelier Eradication

Gone, but quickly forgotten

Sure, there were some protests, a few heartfelt complaints. None of that was unexpected. The kamikazes at PETS (People for the Ethical Treatment of Sommeliers) were their usual strident selves. A handful of women openly wept, but they were mostly mothers of sommeliers, and people understood. A few ethicists wondered if it was the right thing to do. But now that it’s over, it seems everyone agrees it was the best course; indeed, it was the only course. There were simply too many. And an overpopulation calls for the simplest and most direct answer. They had plenty of warning. It took years before the decision to cull the sommelier herd became official. And now that most of them are gone, I think we can all recognize that the world is a better place.

When we began to produce so many sommeliers, some time around the turn of the century, we didn’t realize how successfully they would thrive in the urban environment. Like the other “garbage species,” opportunists like rats and coyotes and crows, sommeliers soon spread everywhere. We’ve all had the experience of cruising through downtown in our driverless cars and being startled by the sudden appearance of a sommelier darting out from between parked cars, their highly polished tastevin reflecting the headlights, and our car only narrowly avoiding running them down. Yet in many major cities, sommelier road kills kept santitation departments extremely busy. It became a huge problem. Let’s face it, most dumps won’t accept sommeliers. Well, most dumps aside from hotel restaurants and major wine conglomerates. Too many road kill sommeliers ended up piled on the side of the road like so many waterlogged mattresses, Serta-fied sommeliers. They were eyesores, a public nuisance, and proud of it.

Maybe we should ask ourselves why we allowed the sommelier population to get out of hand in the first place. By 2020, we knew there was a problem, yet we continued to turn a blind eye to it. More and more certification programs appeared, nearly all of them morally bankrupt and useless, aimed at creating more sommeliers. There was a time not so long ago when a sommelier was a rare sight, akin to spotting a whooping crane, or an attractive wine blogger. Suddenly, seemingly overnight, they were everywhere. You couldn’t go to a wine bar without the server being a sommelier. You couldn’t attend a wine tasting without the room suddenly filling with sommeliers, who, in a weird parody of cockroaches, would quickly fill the room when the lights came on. Maybe we ignored the trend because they were so harmless, and relatively odorless, at least compared to the liquor reps. Or maybe we thought that once everyone realized that there just wasn’t room for any more sommeliers, they’d stop growing in number. Whatever the reasons, we shamefully ignored the sommelier pestilence, and we all bear some responsibility for the end result. Thousands of sommeliers humanely eradicated. Admit it, now that it’s over, it felt good. 

The shelters worked for a while. Rounding up starving and inbred sommeliers, the newly minted and deranged sommeliers, and housing them in temporary shelters hoping that they’d be adopted was a grand idea. The goal was for restaurant owners, wine shop owners, winery owners, anyone who had some need for a pet sommelier, to adopt one from the Sommelier Shelters rather than hire a new one. You could walk into a shelter and pick one out, one with the cutest eyes, or one that might have been a mongrel, perhaps rabid for natural wine and destined for a short life, but who spoke to you. But soon the shelters overflowed. Sommeliers by the dozens were just dumped on their doorsteps by disappointed owners who had found they just couldn’t live with their sommelier any longer, the constant yapping late at night, their bottomless need for attention, becoming just too much. Sommelier Shelters began surreptitiously releasing sommeliers back onto the streets under the cover of darkness, giving them a few dollars and a bottle of orange wine to live on. It became a national disgrace, the worst since Donald Trump was the Republican nominee for President. Something needed to be done.

Of course, a majority of the self-proclaimed sommelier population weren’t actually sommeliers. They were pretenders. They asked each other, “What level sommelier are you?” as though sommeliers were practitioners of kung fu, or were parking garages. They took class after class to learn facts about wine, as though facts were knowledge, as if knowledge were wisdom. A First Level Sommelier, the thinking went, is still a sommelier. The same reasoning applies in cultures who think 13-year-old girls are ready to be wives. But it didn’t matter if they were actually sommeliers, any more than it matters what species of rat is taking over your apartment. You just want them gone. They’re a nuisance, and it’s embarrassing to be with friends and everywhere you turn there are sommeliers skulking about. You feel like you need a shower.

When the Sommelier Shelters didn’t solve the problem, and hunting down the last of the Master Sommeliers with drones targeting Le Paulée tastings, and destroying countless bottles of fake Burgundy as collateral damage, didn’t seem to end the infestation, the inevitable started to become reality. It was time to cull the sommelier herd. They’re not hard to catch. Sommeliers are nocturnal, shunning actual sunshine where others might see their jaundiced skin, and not particularly intelligent. In fact, even faced with growing unpopularity, they are blind to it, and will just walk right up to you and tell you they are a sommelier, and usually in the first sentence. They learned this behavior from doctors, and Jehovah’s Witnesses, to which they are closely related—all three species believe they know more than you do despite evidence to the contrary. Their behavior made them especially easy prey for the people hired to cull their numbers. Maybe the most challenging part of the Great Sommelier Eradication was administering the lottery to choose the people who would cull the sommeliers. Some estimates put the volunteers in the tens of thousands.

Many people demanded that all sommeliers should be eliminated. A radical view, but one that is easily defensible, especially if you know any. Cooler heads prevailed, however, and sommeliers who actually worked as sommeliers—didn’t just have letters after their names, or had lowered themselves to actually make wine, a crime in most states—were left undisturbed. A few hundred now remain around the world in their natural state. More than enough.

Except for their immediate families, and natural wine producers, no one misses sommeliers. Sommelier Shelters are now filled with baristas, yet another national shame. Their “time” is coming. We can only vow that we will never again allow the population of sommeliers to overrun society. We can insure that there are never again countless phony wine accreditation schools that rob our young people of a real life. And now that it’s legal to shoot anyone who claims to be a sommelier, any fucking level, who doesn’t actually work as a sommelier, the arguments over gun control have also vanished. Culling the Sommelier herd worked.

A Visit to the World's Greatest Wine Library

Here it is 2095, and I’m only now visiting the World’s Greatest Wine Library. Its vastness is daunting, its resources unparalleled. On that shelf, the first wine book ever published. Printed by Gutenberg, it’s the first edition of the “Wine Bible.” Inscribed by the author Karen MacNeil, who lived to be nearly 600 years old. Her papers reside in another corner of the World’s Greatest Wine Library, stacked up for use as scratch paper. This cathedral of wine history is littered with brilliance. Jay McInerney’s work is here, too.

For those of you keeping score, this piece marks my 500th post on HoseMaster of Wine™, a lesson in futility if there ever was one. It's probably appropriate that it's published in full on Tim Atkin's great site. If it weren't for Tim asking me to write a monthly column for him more than three years ago, I undoubtedly would have retired. I soldiered on, making enemies and insulting wine people tirelessly until now I'm an icon of wine bloggers. At least in my own mind. Thanks to all of you who have been a part of this craziness for many, or all, of those 500 posts. Keep the hate mail coming!

For the rest of this post, a visit from the future to the World's Greatest Wine Library, proceed to Tim Atkin MW. Leave any relevant comments over at Tim's--he does love a lively conversation over there. Leave any meaningless congratulatory 500th piece comments here. And, no, there will not be another 500.

TIM ATKIN MW

Jay McInerney at the Women in Wine Symposium

Aside from being one of California’s best winemakers, the woman was a babe. She was asking me if I had an opinion about why there aren’t as many women as men in the wine business, but I was staring at her fantastic breasts and wondering if each one tasted a little different, as bottles of the same wine can vary. I can’t say I understood the question, even after I asked her to repeat it while I marveled over the flair of her nostrils, her outrage showing in the way she was nearly breathing fire. Her neck was slightly flushed, the color of young Échezeaux, and I recognized it as a sign of an impending orgasm. She makes one of my favorite wines in California, but I don’t see how that matters. I asked her if she had any tattoos.

I don’t recall which started first, my wine collection or my collection of women. One collection I keep perfectly cool and locked in a cellar. The other is in racks all over my house. When women feel they are not treated equally, I share their outrage. I find that loosens them up.

Late last year, I was asked to be the keynote speaker at the Women in Wine Symposium held in Napa Valley. How could I refuse? Though I confess, I initially thought it was more about marination than job equality. Not that it mattered. In truth, it’s simply a venue for me to talk about myself and then cruise for chicks. Then I became interested in the question. Is the wine business sexist? Is it harder for a woman to achieve success as a winemaker, or vineyard manager, or working in the tasting room where they belong? Are women treated differently in a male-dominated field? God, I hope so, they’re just so damned delicious.

I only noticed recently that there are more and more women in the field of wine. I hadn’t really thought about it. Women in wine are like the Viognier in Côte Rôtie, they’re tossed in the bottom of the bin and crushed under the weight of men until what results is something fine, and special, and mostly about men. You’re not supposed to notice them, not when you do it correctly. But, now, suddenly, the Viognier wants an equal voice, wants to be valued for more than its lovely perfume. And, now, so do women in wine. What could be cuter?

The first evening of the Women in Wine Symposium I walked into a ballroom filled with women employed in the wine business. I was the only man in the room, though many had brought husbands. There’s a difference between husbands and a real man, as there is a difference between a Cru Bourgeois and a First Growth. I’m a First Growth. The one you had removed but then it grew back. The room was overflowing with estrogen, for which I am a Super Taster. Even blind, I can tell the difference between a ’68 Domaine Menopause from an ’85 Clos Zapine. What can I say? I like ‘em a little crazy.

I wandered around the ballroom and talked with several women, asking them about whether they’d ever felt discriminated against on the basis of their sweet, perfumed, warm, wondrous sex. One woman, a knockout in a form-fitting dress that hugged her curves like Mario Andretti in his heyday, told me that she had produced more than a few wines that had received scores from Robert Parker in the high ’90’s, but was paid far less than her male peers. I’m not sure what that had to do with it. She’s talking to one of wine’s greatest prose stylists, a man who could help her career if she’d simply ignore his hands coming out of turn 6 on that fabulous bottom and headed for the finish line, and Robert Parker’s name comes up? Perhaps, I thought, women might be more successful in the wine business if they weren’t constantly shooting themselves in the foot.

Yet there have been many women who succeeded in the wine business in California, women who changed the face of wine, many without having much of a face at all. I was standing in a ballroom with many of them, a few of whom seemed to suffering from red blotch virus, and one in particular whose limp handshake implied she had dead-arm. “Hey,” I quipped, “if eutypa, why not become a secretary?”

I spent a few minutes talking to a blonde bombshell about sexual discrimination in the wine industry. She’s very successful, and would seem to be the whole package. Leggier than an Eiswein in a dirty Riedel glass, she told me that she was expected to always be perfectly groomed, attired in short skirts and low-cut tops that exploit her sexuality because it’s still the case that most high-powered buyers and wine critics are men. “Works for me,” I explained. And I wondered how this could be understood as sexist. Dressing for success is as old as the oldest profession, and now, suddenly, it’s politically incorrect? I’m afraid, I told her, I just don’t get it. She simply walked away, and too briskly for me to get my selfie stick underneath that revealing skirt.

I was enjoying the evening. Wine loosens the inhibitions, and time was on my side. As I strolled around the crowded ballroom, sampling wines made by women winemakers, I thought about how women are almost as important to wine as men. There are 338 Masters of Wine in the world, and 112 of them are women, while nearly all of the rest are men, with several question marks. That seems about right. An almost even third are women, a third are men, and a third are all of the above. Can’t get more equal than that. There are 230 Master Sommeliers, and 32 are women! How is that not equal? That’s basically one in seven—better than Snow White’s dwarves. And when you think Master Sommeliers, you think dwarves.

I spoke to one last woman at the Women in Wine Symposium. She approached me and introduced herself. She was a big fan she told me. She had read almost all of my work, and she recognized that I modeled myself after a great American writer. “I know that you admire and try to emulate Hemingway,” she told me. “May I buy you the gun?”

Larry Anosmia MS, Wine Advice Columnist

My wife and I decided to try the newest restaurant in town. When I read the wine list, I didn’t recognize a single wine. There was some category called “Pet Nat,” which I thought was odd. I’d heard they don’t make good pets, though you can train them, I think, and have a Flying Flea Circus. LOL! And there were a whole bunch of orange wines, which, I don’t know, I thought must have been made by Green and Red winery. Green and Red makes orange. Get it? HA! Anyhow, I was frustrated that I couldn’t find a bottle I even recognized, and when I asked for the sommelier’s help, he just looked at me like I was a dolt, and then sold me some bottle of Pecorino, which I only bought because that was my nickname in high school. Why do so many new restaurants carry wines most people don’t know?—Brett in SF

Dear Brett,
This is a complaint I’m pretty much sick to death of. First of all, it’s the sommelier’s job to look at you like you’re a dolt. During the practical exams for becoming a Master Sommelier, one is required to perform an exemplary condescending face. Many wear it almost constantly. Though too many actually look constipated. But, more importantly, Brett, how is it the restaurant’s responsibility that you know something about wine? Maybe your new restaurant should have some kind of remedial wine list for cretins like you who think you’re entitled to understand the wine menu. All you idiots just want Pinot Noir anyway, or maybe some Silver Oak—the missionary position of wines. You know, Bretthole, why can’t you, and all the other restaurant customers, understand that it’s the sommelier’s job to educate you, not make sure you enjoy your evening? And how can the sommelier educate you with a list full of the stupid kinds of wines you think you like and want to drink? It sounds to me like you ran into a very professional sommelier at that new restaurant. And, truthfully, sommeliers create wine lists to impress other sommeliers, which makes sense when you realize how important we are. And then all the customers do is bitch and moan. It’s the worst part of the job.


I ordered a bottle of wine. When the sommelier poured me a taste, I smelled it, and it smelled worse than a Trump polygraph test. I complained to the sommelier, and she told me that it was supposed to smell like that, and she refused to take it back. She claimed it was a “natural wine.” I asked her what the hell a “natural wine” was, and she told me it was a wine that was made with “minimal intervention,” I guess like our strategy in Syria. So utter bullshit. Shouldn’t she have taken the wine back and offered to replace it with a different wine?—Joe in PA

Dear Joe,
What kind of an idiot are you? Actually, I know what kind of idiot you are. You’re the kind who thinks that wines have to smell clean and pretty in order to be palatable. Well, listen, Joe, there’s a whole category of wines that just don’t need to be judged by the likes of you and the establishment. If a sommelier tells you that’s how a wine is supposed to smell, then you may as well drink it and enjoy it, brother, you own it. Sommeliers and wine writers and winemakers don’t answer to you, Joe. Who are you? We answer to a higher cause. We answer to terroir. A wine is supposed to smell of a place, Joe, and, honestly, some places just don’t smell that good. Think a cat lady’s sofa, or the motel after the Wine Bloggers Conference. When you know a lot about wine, which seems like about Super Bowl 86, you’ll understand that. Have you ever been to the place where that natural wine was made? What you smell is the wine’s terroir if the sommelier, or the wine writer, or the winemaker, says it’s the terroir. It wouldn’t kill you to keep an open mind, Joe. Once again, a sommelier’s job is to impress you with her encyclopedic wine knowledge and recommend the wine she’s convinced you haven’t a clue about in order to help you understand your own wine ignorance. Is that so hard to understand? If your doctor prescribes medicine for you, you don’t actually research the side effects, idiot, you just take it and hope you don’t die. Give your sommelier the same respect.


My husband and I celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary recently at a very nice local restaurant, and we ordered a bottle of Caymus Cabernet with our dinner. It was $200 on the wine list for a current vintage. A few days later, my husband saw it at a local wine merchant for $70. Why are restaurant markups so high on wine? It seems to me that a restaurant would attract more customers, and make more money, if they priced their wine list at more sensible markups. I’m guessing the restaurant only paid about $50 for that bottle. Does $150 profit seem reasonable to you?—Jessica in NY

Dear Jessica,
First of all, congratulations on your 20th wedding anniversary. My condolences to your husband. What a nag. You already kissed that 200 bucks goodbye when you ordered a Caymus Cabernet. Did you think it was even worth the 50 bucks you think it cost the restaurant? So, right there, you’re just talking out your ass. For $200 you could have had two bottles of Kenwood Sauvignon Blanc! But, OK, let’s take your question seriously, as if it were a good question. Though it’s not, it’s more like a “Is it pronounced ‘mare-a-tidge’ or ‘mare-a-taj?’” kind of stupid question. (It’s “mare-a-tidge.” An easy way to remember? It rhymes with “frottage.” Like what your husband does on the subway every morning.) That $150 “profit” goes toward paying the sommelier, who gets paid whether you see him on the floor or not, he could be at a tasting, or recording his weekly podcast that eight people listen to. That $150 “profit” goes to paying for the fancy stemware your wine was served in. You can’t drink Cabernet out of a Zinfandel glass, Jessica, for fuck’s sake, that’s basically a wine drinking cameltoe—just asking for inappropriate cracks. That $150 “profit” goes for proper wine storage. Some day. When we sell enough wine. So when you break it all down, that $150 profit is actually only $125 profit. And don’t forget it cost money to get that Wine Spectator “Almost a Best of Runnerup Award of Excellence,” too. Plus, you want familiar? You want Caymus? Not a Pecorino? You gotta pay the freight. Sommeliers don’t put wines like that on a wine list because we like them, we don’t. We do it because we know you’ll pay to make yourself comfortable, and because we need guest houses when we visit Napa Valley. So it’s a win-win, Jessica. Sheesh, what do you people want?

Aging Wine Critics--I Wouldn't

It’s a question from wine novices that comes up repeatedly. Just how do we know how long to age our wine critics? Furthermore, how can we tell which wine critics will age well, and which will fall apart? Are there any guidelines? I believe there are, and the best way to understand them is to look at wine critics of various ages we have now for clues as to how wine critics age.  However, there is no exact measure, and certainly no guarantee. Many promising wine critics will mysteriously become dull and lifeless with age, though, in most cases, they were duller than Spätburgunder to begin with, and you were simply fooled by their slick packaging.

To better understand aging wine critics, you'll have to follow the monthly HoseMaster link to Tim Atkin's site. Tell him I said hello. Nice guy. Funny accent, but friendly. And while you're there, leave something witty behind. A choice comment, or something you stole from an internet site. Or, if you must, leave a choice little gift for me, all wrapped in a brown paper bag and set on fire.

TIM ATKIN MW
 

Puckette's Charge: Wine Folly

Are you new to wine? Do you want to learn about wine from someone who knows only the teeniest bit more than you? Isn’t that the way you prefer to learn, from someone just a little bit smarter than you? What if you wanted to become a surgeon? Medical school is so expensive, and the teachers there talk way over your head! Surgery doesn’t have to be just for brainiacs! Why not just learn from the local butcher? Surgery is just knives and meat. Start there. But you don’t want to be a surgeon, you want to learn about wine. That’s why Wine Folly is here! No brainiacs allowed! We’re Wine Folly. We’re the knives, and you’re the meat! Let’s get started.

I’m Madeline Puckette, and I’m just like you. I like to get drunk and make videos! And I figured out how to create a wine empire for people just like us, people who want our wine knowledge to be shallow, but good enough to make our craft beer drinking friends think we’re cool. I make wine simple because I know you’re simple. I even use a really large typeface for Wine Folly so that it’s easier to use your fingers to read it. I never take the intelligence of my fans for granted. I just assume you’re reading Wine Folly because you don’t have much. And, dammit, that shouldn’t stop you from enjoying and understanding wine! Other wine websites use all these big words that are confusing. Not here. I make wine simple. And I never forget that my fans are like privileged white kids with powerful attorneys—I always give you really short sentences.

You’ll find lots of neat graphics on Wine Folly, too! At first, they might not make sense. But stay with it, maybe read along with a friend who has a high school diploma. The graphics are a way to make wine easier to understand. For example, you might read in one of those hard wine books with hardly any pictures that wine is about 85% water, 14% alcohol, and 1% minerals and acids and stuff like that. I know, that’s not easy to understand for me either. What exactly does that mean, 85% and 14% and all that? So I made a pie chart! Don’t you love pie charts? I like them almost as much as I like real pie (oh, yes, I forgot to mention that I’m really funny, too). If you don’t know what a pie chart is, you will! I’m all about pie charts. A pie chart is a chart in the shape of a pie. We call it “round.” A wine can be “round,” too, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves! That’s advanced wine talk. On my “round” pie chart I divide the circle into three parts. The biggest part is the 85% part, and it’s labeled “water.” This would be the part of the pie Robert Parker eats! Another part, a lot smaller, says “alcohol.” This is the little part of the pie that I might eat, and maybe throw it up later when no one’s looking. Finally, a little sliver is the “minerals, acids and other junk” part. Give that little piece to the wino downtown. See! That’s so much easier to understand. Simple, right? Wine is mostly water like Wine Folly is mostly empty space.

Now hop on over to Amazon and buy my new book, “Wine Folly: The Essential Guide to Wine.” Don’t be scared that it’s 240 pages! You can read the whole book in about 20 minutes. Well, maybe not you. It’s jampacked with pie charts, and graphs, and the sorts of illustrations you find on absolutely the finest cocktail napkins! Many of them took several minutes on the internet to research. Look, you can buy 50 different beginner wine books on Amazon, and they all say the same things. There’s absolutely nothing new here. Not in those books, and sure as hell not in mine. But “Wine Folly” has all my pie charts and graphs! They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Oh, don’t let that intimidate you. My pictures are only worth five or six!

You’re going to learn so much about wine from my books and videos! For example, I help you understand how to taste a wine. First, you need to smell it. This is from my book:

“Hold your glass just under your nose and sniff once to ‘prime’ your nose. Then swirl your wine once and smell again. This time, smell the wine longer and slower but just as delicately. Switch between sniffing and thinking.”
 
This is how even MWs and MSs smell wine. You can’t be expected to sniff and think at the same time! No one can do that. It’s why we hold our breath when we’re trying to figure out the crossword puzzles in “Highlights for Children.” And it’s important you just swirl the wine once. Wine can get dizzy, and then it gets all confused. Hey, you haven’t even bought my book yet and already you’re a lot smarter about wine!

I don’t like to brag, but what sets me apart from the other people writing about wine is that I don’t feel the need to be right all the time. Wine isn’t about facts. You get that. The whole reason to have a wine blog and to write a wine book is to show people that none of that stuff really matters. Facts, in fact (oh, I can’t help it, I’m just pixieish and funny), are just like wine. Pick the ones you like and just ignore the other ones. I try to make it into a game. See if you can figure out what facts are actually facts, and which ones I’m ignoring. Smart people get bogged down in details, which is just so stupid. But when you read Wine Folly, don’t worry, there’s no smart people here!

I think close enough is good enough. Like I’m close enough to a wine expert that you should buy my book. Like in one of my informative videos I compare an Oregon Pinot Noir to a California Pinot Noir. Which was fun because I had no idea what I was talking about. So the California Pinot Noir was a William Hill Pinot Noir from the Central Coast. I don’t know what that means. Central Coast? That’s vague. A Coast is really long, and a Central is really small. WTF?  So I mentioned that when a wine label says Central Coast the grapes could come from anywhere from all the way up in Mendocino to all the way down to Santa Barbara. See there! Close enough! If you don’t know that’s way off, then your stupid Millennial friends won’t know either. And, come on, Mendocino is only a few hundred miles off! And it’s not like I didn’t know Oregon was near Canada somewhere.

My book is the top-selling wine book on Amazon! Suck it Jancis and Karen! You spend years and years writing your books and I write mine over the weekend. I guess we know who the best wine writer in the world is now. Ask Geoff Kruth MS, or“The Washington Post,” or all the other really smart people who put my book in their Best Wine Books of the Year lists. Those hypocrites. They know. Facts just don’t really matter.

What Not to Publish on Your Stupid Wine Blog in 2016

Here we go, a January tradition. This year, pay closer attention...

ABV DOESN’T MATTER, BOZO!

Ooooh, a new study shows that the alcohol percentage listed on bottles of wine is usually wrong, and more often than not is higher than listed! So the fuck what? You don’t need to chime in and act like this matters to you, or anyone else. “The label says it’s 14.6%, but when we analyzed the wine it was 14.9%!” Listen to me, No One Cares. We talked about this last year! We drink wine for the alcohol, so who cares if what it says on the label is wrong? Pedantic, uptight, anal-retentive jerkoffs, that’s who. Lazy ass “journalists” who can’t think of anything actually interesting to write about. Oh, maybe the label misleads me and I get pulled over by the Highway Patrol and the officer giving me the Breathalyzer doesn’t believe me when I say, “If I’d known the Chardonnay was actually 15.6% ABV instead of 14.9% like the label said, I wouldn’t have had that fourth glass.” Yeah, that could happen. And maybe the officer is a babe who asks you to drop your pants and offers to give you the alternative Fartalyzer test. I took one recently and blew a .12, and all the candles out on a birthday cake. The alcohol percentage on almost every goddam bottle of wine is wrong! There are actual reasons for that, but it isn’t important. Don’t worry about it. Don’t even look at it. Ignore it. People who pick up a bottle of wine and believe the alcohol percentage listed on the label is accurate are the same fools who think wine aerators work. Is that who you want reading your wine blog? Those morons? Don’t write about goddam alcohol percentages. You sound like an idiot, and you don’t know what you’re talking about.

YOU’RE JUST NOT INFLUENTIAL, GET OVER IT!

And when some utterly unread and worthless blog publishes a list of The 100 Most Influential Wine Bloggers and your creepy little compendium of masturbatory musings makes the list, have the common sense to ignore it. There are no Influential Wine Bloggers! It’s stupid to think there are. You get 20,000 hits per month and you’re influential? I guess that makes NFL wives influential, then. Or your crack pipe, if you believe that shit. A list like that is like a list of The 100 Most Powerful Homeless People. They’re homeless! How much power can they have? Bloggers are the wine business’ homeless people—always asking for handouts, free alcohol and warm places to sleep, then wondering why no one wants to make eye contact with them. Plus, they smell bad. And you’re #87 on the list! Congratu-fucking-lations! I’d be crowing about that, too, right after I finished bragging about how I got one number right in the PowerBall lottery. Just write your little blog, don’t bother us with how impressed some other loser is with your influence. It’s boring, and it’s unbecoming to someone with so much awesome power!

PARIS TASTING, ON THE SPURRIER OF THE MOMENT

Here’s another subject to avoid—2016 is the 40th anniversary of the Paris tasting. Great, you can do math! You weren’t there, you’ve never tasted any of the wines that were judged, everything you know about it comes from the movie “Bottle Shock…” Which means you don’t know shit from Sassicaia. Wow, a bunch of French wine experts were fooled! How often does that happen? Every week? Every time Michel Bettane publishes? No one wants to read your thoughts about how that tasting changed the course of history. Basically because you’ll just parrot the same crap that’s been said about the Paris tasting for the last fucking forty years! Did it change the course of California wine? I guess you could say that. I mean, groups of stupid people can change history, look at the OJ Simpson jury and the Hollywood Foreign Press. If it weren’t for the Paris tasting, would there be an Opus One? So, yeah, thanks a lot French judges. It doesn’t matter, just don’t publish anything about the Paris tasting on your wine blog—what the hell can you say about it that matters, or that hasn’t been said better by people with a lot more talent than you have? It was a blind tasting and the California wines did a little better. What does that prove? You know how every idiot says that he and his friends had a tasting of Cabernets and the cheapest wine won? So, like that. It was a bunch of French judges in 1976, a very bad jury of your pères. Let it pass.

96 TIERS MINUS 93 TIERS EQUALS SHUT THE HELL UP

And we get it, the three-tier system of wine distribution sucks. Wow, there you go, sticking your neck out with those outside-the-box opinions! Those giant distributors are squeezing out the little guys like so many butt pimples. Which makes it harder for all the smaller, boutique wineries to get representation and distribution. Which means it takes those wineries years to learn that there’s no demand for the mediocre crap they’re making when it used to take only months. That doesn’t seem fair. And it means that you may only have tens of thousands of wines to choose from instead of hundreds of thousands, which matters, even if you always buy the same eight wines most of the time. If you live in a state that doesn’t allow wine shipments—MOVE, asshole! Though if you’re in the state next to Utah, man, you’re going to wish there were more Syrians available.

I PREDICT YOUR PREDICTIONS ARE BORING

Do you really feel the need every year to predict wine trends? You’re suddenly wine’s Nostradamus? I predict you’re going to end up with a horse’s head in your bed if you keep it up, and I’m wine’s Cosa Nostradamus. Every fucking blog had the same four stupid predictions. Hey, I know, next year let’s predict the calendar. My prediction? This year, April is going to show up right around late March. You heard it here first. Idiots. You’re barely in the wine business. You write a wine blog, for hump’s sake. Believing your predictions for what’s going to happen in the wine business in the coming year is like believing Ted Cruz is going to be the President of Canada, which would be nice because who the hell cares about Canadians? So resist the urge to predict wine trends. You’re full of shit, you know it, we all know it, and you should just stick to what you do best. Plagiarism.

Donald Trump, Your New Emperor of Wine

Some of you morons are going to ask what qualifications I have to be a wine critic. I have better qualifications than the clowns who are writing about wine now, but, I admit, that’s not saying much. I mean, look at Robert Parker. He’s just some fat, old, former attorney. You know what I call fat, old, former attorneys? Bathroom attendants. I shake my schlong dry and they wipe up after. Who cares what that washed-up schlong mop thinks about wine? I know a lot more about wine than Parker does. I gave the greatest winery in the state of Virginia to my son. Well, my idiot son. But there you go, that just shows you I must be against abortion.

And don’t talk to me about Jim Laube. He couldn’t make it as a sports writer so he gets a gig with some wine magazine that people read while they’re taking a dump, and you’re going to take his wine advice? I feel sorry for you. Did you know he spits all the wine?! That’s disgusting. I never spit, not unless there’s a Muslim or a Mexican around. Or Megyn Kelly. I have ten wine cellars, and each one is bigger than Laube’s whole house. There’s your damned qualifications.

And who is this Antonio Balloni guy? Galloni? What’s his name? Balloni, Galloni, it’s all the same. No, listen, I like Antonio, he’s a nice guy. His wife, his wife is gorgeous. He’s probably too drunk most of the time to take care of her, but that’s her problem. Wouldn’t happen if she were my wife, just sayin’. He’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t have much of a palate. I know the guy, I’ve tasted with him, I’ve sat across from him, and, let me tell you, I had to explain the wines to him. The guy tells me the wine is corked, and there’s the cork sitting right there next to the open bottle! He’s an idiot. Though I’d do his wife, his wife is a babe.

When I’m your leading wine critic, we’re going to make wine great again! These guys, Parker and Laube and Galloni, they’ve ruined wine. Wine is worse now than it was when Jesus was making it. And that was some pretty nasty stuff back then. Well, what do you expect? Jesus was a Jew, and Jews don’t make good wine, everybody knows that. But it’s worse now. I’ve had every wine that those wine weaklings have given a hundred points. I’ve got cases of those wines. You know what? They stink. I wouldn’t let Hilary drink ‘em. I wouldn’t let Bill drink ‘em either because he’d go out and try to get some intern to taste from his meat thief.

If I made a wine that Parker gave a hundred points, I’d be ashamed of myself. Like I voted for a Kenyan for President of the United States. I’d just give up winemaking and go back to school and try to do something useful with my life. Like maybe be a suicide bomber at VinItaly. You have to be a terrible winemaker to get a hundred points from Parker. I feel sorry for those guys. I know even my idiot son wouldn’t hire a winemaker like that.

If I tell you a wine is great, that’s all you have to know. Just run out and buy as many bottles as you can afford. I don’t need to give it points. 88—94—107…what does that mean? 38-24-36, now we’re talking. Those are some points. I married those points, with a Double D after the first score. Who cares how many points you get? This isn’t the NBA! Black people don’t drink wine. I love black people, but they don’t drink wine. I think it’s genetic, like Asians. Anyway, when I’m your wine critic, there won’t be any points. Don’t need ‘em. They’re like tits on Bernie Sanders. Or Carly Fiorina, she may have some one day. Hey, Carly, I’m buyin’!

Once I’m in charge of what wines sell, I’m also going to clean up the winery business. Oh, they’re not gonna like it. But I don’t care. I’m not weak like that New York Times sissy Eric Asimov. Too bad Eric isn’t more like his Uncle Isaac. That guy was a great bartender! “The Love Boat,” what a great show. Captain Shtupping—I’ve been called that! This might shock you, but 97% of the wineries in this country employ illegal aliens! 97%! Mexicans!

Why are we letting Mexicans pick our wine grapes? It’s crazy. They cross our borders, they steal, they take our charity, they rape our women, then they pick our wine grapes. Where do they get their energy? It’s crazy to let Mexicans pick our wine grapes. What’s next? We let Al Qaeda build our airports? Boko Haram run the Girl Scouts? It’s gotta stop. I’d build a wall around wine country, see how many of them could get past it to pick grapes. I mean, France has all kinds of walls around their vineyards. They call ‘em Clos. It works. You never see a Mexican in Bordeaux. You don’t hear Parker talking about this problem, but he’s weak. The Emperor has no Clos.

This rating wine thing is easy. I’ll tell you how easy it is. I don’t even drink, and I’m the most powerful wine critic in the world. Drinking shows weakness. I’ll give them one thing, the Muslims got that right. Name one great leader who drank. OK, Churchill, but if it wasn’t for us Americans that fat slob ends up Hitler’s buttboy. Now Hitler, he didn’t drink. There was a leader! Yeah, he did some stuff he shouldn’t have, but the guy could throw a rally! I’m thinking maybe I should start the Trump Youth. Really, it’s simple, you want to be a leader, don’t drink and have cool hair.

When I’m the most famous wine critic, which is maybe a month or so away, after I start my new wine magazine, “Wine Trumptator,” you can be sure that I’ll be telling you the best wines to drink based on things far more important than taste. Like advertising. You want great wine reviews, you want the Trumptator seal of approval? Run some full-page ads in “Wine Trumptator!” Grow up, America. This is how business works. Oh, yeah, sure, some of you are going to whinge about how this isn’t fair to the little guy, the guy who can’t afford an ad in my magazine. Suck it up. Grow a pair. Or if you’re Hitler, grow one! This isn’t going to be Obama’s America where we blind taste and pretend we’re objective, where we try to support the little guy. Wine isn’t about objectivity. Wine isn’t about stories and dreams. Only losers think that. Wine is about prestige and power. You snuggle up to wine because you want to be seen as important and educated, like me. It won’t work, but try not to look stupid doing it, not like poor Bill Koch. Bill, I love you, I know you look up to me, but getting suckered by some pimply little Asian dude selling you fake wines? You’re a loser. Winners drink what I tell them to drink. Face it, you don’t know anything about wine or you wouldn’t be reading wine magazines in the first place.

So here’s my first recommendation. Meomi Pinot Noir. Buy it. The guy sold it to Constellation for 700 million dollars! I love the guy. Wagner. Wrote great operas, too. Who is this guy, I want to meet him. He’s a winner. Lots of ads, lots of press, bang, his crap wine gets lots of high scores! When I’m through, the wine business will never be the same.

The HoseMaster's Letter to Santa 2015

Dear Santa,

I had a wonderful year in 2015. I was threatened with a lawsuit! Thank you for that, Santa. It was my most unexpected gift. Lucky for me, it lasted about as long as a Riedel wine glass before it breaks. So, truly, I don’t need anything for myself this Christmas. But, as I do every year, I’m writing on behalf of others, on behalf of the wine business itself. Truly, Santa, we’re a fucked-up business (pardon my Elvish, but those little pricks can swear) and we need your help.

I’ve been so worried about sommeliers, Santa, that I can’t sleep at night. There are so many of them. They’re the worst invasive species since starlings, kudzu and Adele. They have movies made about them, a whole franchise, worse than the “Saw” movies, with less charm and more victims screaming. They even named it SAWM. I had to turn my head away in horror at this nightmare of human depravity. Though I hear the sequel is cute. TV shows have been made about sommeliers. Sommeliers are the new Real Housewives of Atlanta, portrayed as blathering, egotistical train wrecks you wouldn’t fuck with Dr. Conti’s dick, which may or may not be real, ask Maureen Downey. There’s even a sommelier in the new “Star Wars: The Force Awakens”—Han Job Solo. Enough is enough! Honestly, we could use more teachers.

And, Santa, I had an idea; is there a way to make it so that wine scores are tied to free shipping? I think this would be the best gift of all for wine lovers everywhere. Make it so that wineries who don’t post scores from wine publications are allowed to ship their wines for free to anyone in the United States! Consumers would be all over that, and so happy. “Please, please, please, Favorite Winery,” they’d say, “don’t use any scores! Just ship me a case of wine for free. I don’t give a crap what scores you received. So if it means I don't have to pay for shipping, Don’t Tell Me!” Scores would slowly go away. Wineries would see that their best interest is in ignoring scores, not playing that silly game they cannot win. And when scores go away, consumers win, too. Well, Santa, I’m sure lots of people wish for things that are impossible, like an end to wars, or Gummy Bear dick pills, but do what you can. I don’t need scores to go completely away, Santa, maybe just make them appear as worthless as they are, like wine aerators and Silver Medals.

This Christmas, Santa, my thoughts are also with all the poor and suffering people on Earth. It would be nice, I thought, to do something for each of them, something that would bring a little bit of joy to their wretched lives, by delivering gifts that might give them hope, bring them comfort. Gifts that express our concern for their welfare. Santa, please gift each and every one of the poorest and most down-trodden with a subscription to Le Pan, and a copy of Napa Valley: Now and Then! Gifts that truly say our priorities are in order, we care, and that will burn long into the cold, winter night.

Santa, for the Napa Valley Wine Train, what about a new conductor? Something that would electrocute the whole bunch. Or, at the least, how about giving them a new slogan, “The Napa Valley Wine Train: If you go black, you never go back!”

Like Georg Riedel, Santa, I am all for free speech. But there are a few choice words I’d like for you to get rid of, as a gift to the wine community. “Minerality,” Santa, what the hell is that? And why is it desirable in wine? If I want to be fucking Demosthenes and taste pebbles in my mouth, I’ll wear a toga and visit the Flintstones. And what makes a wine “authentic?” How do we know it’s authentic? Because it has the word “authentic” in front of it? Because a wine writer says it’s authentic? Is that idiot wine writer “authentic?” Does authentic Chablis have lots of minerality? Who cares? It makes more sense if you say it with pebbles in your mouth.

Though, frankly, Santa, I don’t think even you can rid the world of “natural.” Too many stupid people believe in it, like they believe in Wikipedia and read Wine Folly. The world is made up of but two categories of things, it seems to me, natural and manmade. And manmade things that are called natural are called natural out of desperation and marketing, not truth. Like Tang has “natural” orange flavoring. And it’s only “natural” to defend yourself with a gun. Nothing natural yearns to be manmade. Nothing natural is manmade. It’s a step down. Natural wine? OK, Santa, I give up. Let people fall for that tap dance. Wine’s about as natural as a hot fudge sundae. But, I guess I can only hope for a "natural" death.

Santa, would it kill you to keep an eye on Randall Grahm? I sure hope his plans to create 10,000 new grape varieties succeeds. The wine world needs Randall, he’s our Don Quixote, or, at the very least, Dapple. Please, Santa, make sure that when Grahm succeeds at creating a distinctive and new wine made from 10,000 different grapes that he’s created and cultivated that it doesn’t taste like Silver Oak. I think that just might kill him. Make sure it has minerality.

I hope all of this isn’t too much to ask. I tried to keep my list short this year, Santa. I wanted to include a lot of other gifts, like a Do Not Resuscitate Order for the regular contributors to World of Fine Wine—it would only be humane. And probably too late. And a few fresh ideas for Wine Spectator would have been nice, give Marvin the originality transplant he so desperately needs. Wine Spectator’s originality suffered rigor mortis years ago, and it’s been Restaurant Awards, Top 100, Best Wines under $20, and Matt Kramer ever since. It’s hard to tell the Wine Spectators from the 1990’s from today’s, except the scores are higher and the ads are slicker. Oh, wait, it’s the other way around. Wine Spectator is the missionary position of wine magazines--I don't mind being screwed, but can we change positions once in a while?

No matter, Santa. Most of all, I want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Happy Kwanzaa (cheap party deals on the Napa Valley Wine Train!), and all the best in 2016.

I wonder if I’ll be here to write you next year, Santa? Like most everyone else, I hope not.

Merry Christmas!
HoseMaster of Wine™

The SOMM Old Shit

Hair Kruth

SOMM looks to become yet another Hollywood franchise, along the lines of Star Wars, James Bond and Gidget. The original film, SOMM, was actually the last in the Francis the Talking Mule series, with nothing but jackasses mouthing off. SOMM: Into the Bottle, the second in the SOMM series, answers the timeless question, “If you won’t stop the fucking car, where do I piss?” And just like that situation, the sweet relief comes when the film is over.

The writer/director of the SOMM series, Jason Wise, recently released a list of the next several films he’s planning in the SOMM series. He also announced that he has signed the most important actor in the films to a long term contract. That actor, Geoff Kruth’s hair, was not available for comment.

SOMM: Death to the Salesmen

In SOMM: Death to the Salesmen, Wise focuses on the relationship between sommeliers and the people who sell them wine. Fresh from achieving the Master Sommelier credential, these young somms now realize their power over ordinary wine salespeople. Wise masterfully builds the suspense so that we wonder, along with the salespeople, whether or not the somms will ever return a phone call, treat them with some respect, or even acknowledge their existence. “Calling on most sommeliers,” one saleswoman remarks, “is like having unprotected sex with Charlie Sheen—you expect to get screwed, and then the cocktail is expensive.” In another scene, we watch while Geoff Kruth’s hair keeps a salesman waiting for two hours. His hair always has a nice part.

SOMM: Schwindler’s List

Jason Wise spent months in camouflage gear capturing footage of a phenomenon rarely seen by humans, Master Sommeliers working the floor! The film’s title refers to their uncanny ability to squeeze restaurant clients for money. In a memorable scene, an unwitting guest asks the sommelier if there’s a corkage fee for the wine he’s brought in for his 50th wedding anniversary. He’s told the corkage fee is $150. “To open a bottle of wine?” the man asks, obviously astounded and angry. “No,” the somm says (Geoff Kruth’s hair, in a wonderful performance), “it’s ten bucks to open it. The other $140 is for product.” Wise also shows how restaurant wine prices are decided. “We take the price we paid for the bottle and multiply it by how many years it took me to pass the Master Sommelier exams—so, six. That seems fair.” There’s also a look at how by-the-glass programs work. “It’s pretty simple,” our sommelier tells us, “we serve you obscure wines that an average person doesn’t know, which disguises the price, then we pour a fifth of the bottle, and charge for that glass what the bottle cost to begin with. You know, really, we’re just trying to make movie theater concessions look cheap.” Soon you’ll see why every restaurant wine list is a Schwindler’s List.

SOMM: Thing About Mary

A lighthearted and occasionally crude look at the wine business. Theatergoers won’t soon forget what ends up in Geoff Kruth’s hair. A little Châteauneuf-du-Spunk.

SOMM: Like It Hot

A couple of sommeliers inadvertently witness a crime at Jackson Family Estates, yet another Banke robbery, and decide to dress as women in order to avoid being hired in the business. Hilarity ensues when the sommeliers go on a wine junket to Portugal in the hot summer and end up with Dry Sack. Geoff Kruth’s hair provides comic relief as the love interest for a muskrat.

SOMM: Namblaists

A strange tale of sommeliers who sleepwalk and fondle boys. Jared Fogle stars. Sponsored by Subway—Eat Freshmen!

SOMM: Breros

A fascinating inside look at the immigrant work force that actually harvests the grapes in California. While our intrepid band of Master Sommeliers travel the world drinking and debauching on junkets, and basking in the admiration of wine lovers, Juan and his crew spend harvest working long hours in the vineyard performing back-breaking work while looking forward to being scorned by the people of wine country. It’s heroes and zeroes—yeah, you decide.

SOMM: Left Behind

Jason Wise’s vision of a world without sommeliers. One morning, Geoff Kruth’s hair awakens to discover that every sommelier in the world has suddenly vanished in the long-predicted Sommelier Rapture. Except him. Kruth’s hair realizes that now he is the only sommelier on the planet—so, in his mind, nothing has changed, really. Wise poses the question, in a world without sommeliers, who will make wine seem unapproachable? Can wine survive without the people who spend their lives studying its trivia? Will ordinary people ever be able to remove a cork from a bottle and make it seem an act of courage? SOMM: Left Behind is a frightening look at a world where sommeliers have vanished. It will remind you of your last visit to French Laundry. Yes, it’s that scary.

SOMM: Goddame Losers

Wise tells the stories of the men and women who fail to pass the Master Sommelier exam. These Goddame Losers (their God is Fred Dame MS) have spent thousands of dollars and wrecked their personal lives in a vain attempt to become a Master Sommelier. Without the MS after their names, these poor souls must learn to live as mere mortals, holding down actual jobs and having healthy relationships. Losers. Imagine. They could be working for Southern Wine and Spirits, or Jackson Family Estates, where they’d earn the undying respect of salesmen. It just doesn’t seem fair. But we can't all be Geoff Kruth's hair. The Goddame Losers, it turns out, can't handle the Kruth!

Which Wine Goes With Erectile Dysfunction?

There’s an annoying trend in wine writing to recommend wines to accompany experiences other than dining. Specific wines with specific music, for example. How much sense does that make? Though I know that when I listen to John Cage, I always prefer to serve a fine and decidedly empty bottle of Opus One. Cage understands the meaning of silence, which you can perfectly complement by not drinking Opus One. But only a great vintage. Not drinking a poor vintage just seems insulting to the music.

When wine journalists pair wine with preposterous things it irks me. It's insulting. And that's my department. To read my insightful recommendations on what wines go with erectile dysfunction, adultery and canine euthanasia, you'll have to click over to Tim Atkin's award-winning site. You certainly need to know the perfect wine to drink with losing your virginity! Won't be long! That's what she said. As always, please leave your witty commentary on Tim's site, if you can figure out how. But if you can't, you can leave them here. Help yourself to the little blue pills.

TIM ATKIN MW

A Child's Guide to Wine 3

What Does Wine Taste Like?

Have your parents ever taken you into a winery tasting room? Yes? Well, your parents are buttholes. Children don’t belong in tasting rooms. It’s not your fault your parents are doodyheads, but remember when you have kids one day (see “A Child’s Guide to Fun with Fornication”) that children don’t belong in tasting rooms any more than grownups belong in bouncy castles. Grownups have parts that no one should have to watch bounce, parts you’ll soon have, the parts that are the most fun to touch. Yes, it is disgusting.

Before you learn what wine tastes like, you have to learn how to taste wine. I know, this makes no sense, but wine isn’t something you just taste, like boogers, but something you have to taste in the right way. You’re not old enough now to taste wine, but you can still learn the right way so that when you are old enough you won’t look like a jerk.

Let’s say that someone has poured you a little bit of wine and you’re expected to taste it. What’s the first thing you have to do? Pick up the glass. Now, this sounds easy, but it’s not for a lot of people. How did you pick up the glass? Did you pick it up by the bowl, or did you use the stem? Always pick up a wine glass by the stem. Picking up a glass by grabbing the bowl is like picking up your knife by grabbing the blade. That’s pretty stupid! Or like picking up the gun your Daddy leaves laying around the house by the trigger. Remember when you did that? And now Fluffy is missing that leg? The wine glass has a handle! Use it. The next time one of those “uncles” Mommy has to dinner when Daddy’s on the road picks up his wine glass by the bowl, remember to yell at him, “You’re doing it wrong!”—just like Mommy screams at Daddy when they think you’re asleep.

After you pick up the glass by the stem, the next thing you have to do is swirl the wine in the glass. Why do we swirl the wine? Nobody knows, really. Idiots say it’s to help the wine “breathe.”  Remember when you accidentally shot Fluffy? If you swirled her around, do you think that would have helped her “breathe?” No. But it sure would have been fun! I mean, why else does she have a tail? And that’s why you swirl the wine in the glass—it’s fun! See how fast you can do it. Grownups who think they know about wine will tell you that swirling it helps to make it smell better, that swirling helps to release the wine’s aromas, makes it breathe. When they tell you that, go into the bathroom, get your inhaler, and spray it into their wine. “I’m helping it breathe,” tell them. This will make them laugh. Or hit you. Either way, you win.

Don’t forget to look at the wine’s color, too. No reason. The proper way to taste wine involves looking at the color and saying something simpleminded like, “Ooh, what a gorgeous color,” or “Look at the legs!” None of it makes any sense, but this is how it’s done. Does a wine have legs? It has one more than Fluffy! The legs are what run down the side of the glass after you swirl it. Legs are very important to understanding wine. Most importantly, legs teach you that the people who remark on the wine’s legs don’t know shit about wine. So everything else they tell you, you can ignore.

You’re still not ready to taste the wine! I know, I know, this is taking forever. It’s like potty training for slow kids. Yes, in fact, it’s exactly like potty training for slow kids, only they’re grownups now. Before tasting the wine, after picking up the glass by the stem, swirling, and remarking on its color, but not its legs (just like you do with people), you now have to smell the wine. For the most part, wine smells awful. But you get used to it, and you come to love it. Think of grandma, it’s a lot like that. Grandma smells old and sour, and sometimes makes you want to throw up. Wine is the same way! Now, what does the wine smell like? Maybe you smell cherries, or maybe you smell apples, but it doesn’t matter what you say. You probably can’t smell that much really. Wine all sort of smells the same, but if it’s expensive wine, it’s important to think that it smells really good, even if you’re not sure. Knowing how to describe a wine with a lot of words is what is called being a “connoisseur.” That’s a hard word to say. It’s “con-a-sewer.” Remember, knowing a lot about wine involves “con” and “sewer.” One is what you do, the other is where you end up living if you drink too much wine.

Now you get to taste the wine. Finally! Just put a little bit into your mouth. Don’t swallow it! You’re just going to taste it, then spit it out. This is how you taste wine. It’s also great with hot dogs. Take a little bit of wine into your mouth and just let it sit on your tongue. What does the wine taste like? At first, it’s kind of nasty. Don’t expect to like it. You have to be a real grownup to like the taste of wine. In a way, wine tastes like death. Which is something grownups taste a lot, so they like it. Kind of chew on the wine, feel how it sort of burns. It doesn’t take very long, and then you’ll understand why people spit it out. Why wouldn’t you? It’s all sour and tastes like hot dirt. See, it’s death in a bottle. Just a little taste of it gives your life more meaning.

My Rejected Entries to "The Oxford Companion to Wine"

I’m feeling a bit disappointed. I just opened the Fourth Edition of “The Oxford Companion to Wine” and not a single one of my entries was published. Admittedly, Jancis Robinson didn’t solicit any contributions from me, but I submitted them anyway. I was certain my well-researched entry on “Overblown Wine Encyclopedias” was going to get in. I’m certainly as qualified as many of the contributors to the OCW4, particularly those who are deceased. Who must be great fun at the book signings.

To read my inexplicably rejected entries for "The Oxford Companion to Wine," you'll have to jump over to Tim Atkin MW's site. Honestly, I cannot believe my entries aren't in the book! And she calls it complete. Maybe for the Fifth Edition I'll be asked to contribute. I might make it as one of the deceased.

As always, feel free to comment on Tim's site, he does so like to have witty ripostes and retorts posted there. Or put your torts and postes here, and I'll have them for breakfast.

TIM ATKIN MW

Lo Hai Qu Rides the Napa Valley Wine Train

It's been quite a while since my crazy intern, yup, still an intern, Lo Hai Qu asked to take over HoseMaster of Wine™. I never quite know what to expect. Oh, well, here we go again...


So, like, me and my girls Loqueesha and Shizzangela, and Loqueesha’s weird cousin Klamydia, who was visiting from planet Dumbshit, which is right next to Uranus if you know where to look, decided we’d go to Napa Valley and ride the Napa Valley Wine Train. What a stupid fucking idea that was. Might as well ride the Napa Valley Wine Bus. It’s cheaper and you can get off when you want to, like the guy in the back playing with himself. I mean, I guess some people find trains romantic. Like the same people who think square dancing is cool. You’d never get me into one of those gigantic square dancing skirts, not me, I’d look like some fucked-up Tiffany lampshade for orphans or something. But Loqueesha had to take Klamydia sightseeing and she talked me into going. I don’t know what Loqueesha was thinking taking Klamydia there—yeah, that makes sense, take a fucking train wreck to a fucking train wreck.

Of course, Shizzangela is wearing her usual tight shirt that shows off her gigantic rack. This one says in big, sparkly letters across her boobs, “ALL ABOARD!” Klamydia’s wearing some bright orange blouse with tassels that says, “In Emergency, Pull Cords,” which I can tell Shizzy wants to steal, only it would never fit her, it’s way too small. If she put it on it would be like trying to shove a cantaloupe into a condom, but she wants it anyway. So already I’m thinking there’s going to be some trouble. But I don’t give a shit, I’m just looking for somewhere I can smoke. I just figured you could smoke on a train, but the annoying train boy, or train steward, or train dick, or whatever he was, tells me I can’t. Really? Like what if I hang out the window, who’s gonna know that it isn’t the train belching all the smoke? How am I supposed to drink if I can’t smoke? I just got on this stupid train and I’m already in a bad mood. And Loqueesha is none too happy either cuz they put us in the Chardonnay car. “Like we’re a bunch of Oakies,” she says. Klamydia doesn’t care, she’s climbed up in the luggage rack and is making choo-choo noises. She’s pretty weird, but Loqueesha told us her mom drank a lot of Barefoot when she was pregnant so Klamydia’s got Feetal Alcohol problems. It’s gonna be a long train ride.

I don’t think I was ever on a train before I went on the Napa Wine Train. Maybe at Disneyland, but that’s not the same, that’s like saying you’ve had wine before but all you drank was Meiomi Pinot Noir, which isn’t wine, really, it’s kinda more like a Hostess Cupcake, you just think you had wine. And why does anybody go to Napa Valley, one of the most famous wine regions in the world, as famous as, like, Champagne or Spumanti, and then ride a train through it? It’s like going to Vegas for the culture. There’s like 200 tasting rooms, and you’re riding around in a steel box like you’re Houdini, or some fucking wine country astronaut gazing out the little window at the Earth and drinking Tang and recycled urine, which I had a glass of at Castello di Amorosa. Plus riding that train is like going around wine tasting with a bunch of strangers piled into your car. Strangers that don’t like you, not that I give a wet Bieber. I mean, the four of us get on that train, the little Asian girl and her friends of a certain color, and Shizzy’s titzillas are all up in everybody’s face introducing themselves, and Loqueesha is carrying a foreign load from drinking rosé all through breakfast to put up with Klamydia building sausage robots, and Klammy is making choo-choo noises, and I can see the other people in the Chardonnay car making stony faces at us like the woman in the rocking chair in that famous old painting, “Kistler’s Mother.” I’m pretty sure nobody wanted us there as soon as we got on. Which makes all of us.

Pretty soon we were chugging up the Valley. So was the train. Haha, good one, Lo! I put the L-O in LOL. I’m actually starting to enjoy myself. The train isn’t going very fast, which is a surprise to me, actually, because Loqueesha told me it was a bullet train through Napa Valley, so I thought we’d be going up and down the Valley faster than divorce attorneys. I’m thinkin’ the ride might last about ten minutes, so I’m drinking wine like it’s ipecac and I’m a runway model for Donna Karan. So are my girls, and now the fun begins. All the people in our Chardonnay car are staring at us, and not just because Shizzy is makin’ up rap songs about the wineries we’re passin’. She’s rappin’ into a bottle of Cabernet like it’s a mic, shit like, “Frankie Ford Coppola/owner of Inglenookie/Here’s an offer you can’t refuse/come eat my cream-filled cookie.” Klamydia is laughin’ so hard she falls out of the luggage rack and breaks wind when she hits the floor, which makes me say, “Hey, don’t worry, that wasn’t a fart, she’s just playing her Duck Horn.” OK, not that funny, but I was pretty lit. Now people are shushing us, which doesn’t go over too big with Loqueesha. “It’s the Napa Valley WINE Train,” she says, “the ‘wine’ part is the point. We’re just havin’ fun.”

Now the wine dick comes over and asks us to keep it down. He’s telling us that if we don’t, he’s going to have to stop the train and have us removed, like we’re skin blemishes that are the wrong color and might be cancerous. I can see Shizzy is pissed, but I get it. Maybe we’re a little loud, but we’re just having fun, not trying to ruin anybody else’s vacation. Everybody was laughin’ at Shizzy’s rap, and Loqueesha was taking pictures with everybody, but I guess there were a few folks that didn’t like it and kept complaining to the wine police.

And, well, fuck, it’s an Asian chick and some black chicks in the whitest of white counties outside of Racist Cop, Idaho. I know, dropping the race card kinda upsets folks in the Napa wine biz because they’ll swear up and down that it wasn’t about us being minorities, it was about us being rude. All these white people, white wine police and white marketing people and white wine writers, talking about how marching a bunch of women of a different color off of their tourist trap wine train into the arms of the local cops they’d called wasn’t about racism at all, it’s because we didn’t behave ourselves. People like us should know better, right? Stay in our place. No, hell, no, it wasn’t racist. They always call the fuckin’ cops to take dangerous people off the train, right? And people sayin’ it can’t be racist because, hey, I’m married to a minority person, so I know racism when I see it. Yeah, marry a sheep and then you’ll stop wearing wool, too, I guess. It’s all bullshit, it was all about my girls being the wrong color, like they’re Negroamaro at a clambake.

They tossed our sexy asses off the train, well, once they got Klamydia out of the luggage rack even though they didn’t have the right baggage claim check for her. The local cops had the sense to see it was stupid, that four slightly buzzy chicks weren’t much of a threat to the community, and they split, though Shizzy has this thing for guys in uniform and she offered the cute one a complimentary cavity search, which she thinks is what dentists do, so luckily the cop declined. The wine train police wouldn’t let us back on the train. We could hear the people in the Chardonnay car clapping when we left, but those smelly old white people probably thought that the clapping would turn the lights on and off, or their pacemakers.

Me and my girls, we’re used to being stared at in wine country. It’s why Shizzy wears those crazy, sparkly shirts—people see those instead of her skin color. I was mad as a proctologist with a Latex allergy, but Shizzy and Loqueesha just shrugged. I guess that says it all.

Larry Anosmia MS at TexSom--Orange is the New Blech

I don’t know about you, but I think that “Texas” and “Sommelier” are about as natural together as “Utah” and “Jazz.” Or “Craft” and “Beer.” The words together don’t make any sense. There’s no jazz in Utah any more than there are Mormons in New Orleans. If there were, they’d rename the football team the New Orleans Latter Day Saints, and play their games on Lun-Day. Jackasses. And beer is not a craft. Nobody thinks beer is a craft. Basket weaving is a craft. Making furniture is a craft. Coopering barrels is a craft. Beer? Beer is glorified soup. Nobody makes craft soup. Can we just move on from all the “Craft” stupidity before the craft cheese people move in. Oh, I’m sorry, I meant Kraft cheese. You know, there’s Cheese Whiz and there’s beer whiz. Not much craft involved.

I was invited to speak at TexSom, conduct a seminar with another wine expert, and attend the tastings and events. I can understand why I was invited. I’m a Master Sommelier, and there are only 230 of us in the world. That’s not very many. People think there are a lot more of us, just like they think there are a lot more serial killers than there really are. I’m not sure, but I think Fred Dame is both. Just a joke, Fred. Or is it…? Of the 230, it seems like 100 of us were in Dallas for TexSom. It was so hot in Dallas, you could hear our hair gel crackling. Sounded like small arms fire, which they love in Texas. What do you call that many Master Sommeliers in the same building? Timothy McVeigh’s next job.

My seminar was entitled “Natural Wines—Orange is the New Blech.” When my seminar was first announced, I was worried because it didn’t sell out immediately. First of all, you won’t be a Master Sommelier for long if you don’t sell out. We all sell out. But, of course, the stupid Burgundy seminar sold out first. Wine beginners always jump on the Burgundy seminar first. And it’s always the worst seminar in the lineup. Always. Why? Because Burgundy experts are the dullest people alive. It’s true. All they talk about is terroir, and Premier Crus, and the influence of the Thelonius Monks in Burgundy. It’s a bigger snorefest than a Michel Chapoutier lecture—it’s why Chapoutier has to have Braille labels, everyone’s eyes are closed when he’s talking. Always avoid Burgundy seminars! Just forget about them. Otherwise, check your Côtes and drop your Clos, bend over, and let them drive it up the Seine.

My seminar was set for the morning of the second day of TexSom. So I had the first day to get shitfaced and cruise for MS groupies. I don’t think every MS has groupies, but Larry Anosmia MS has groupies! Most of them think the short cut to an MS is through Larry’s deep dark wine cave. I don’t know what the women think. Doesn’t matter, there aren’t a lot of female Master Sommeliers, or, as we like to call them, Sommeliettes. We’re still sort of a boys club—you know, lapel pins, secret handshakes, constant circle jerks. But we have to let a few girls in now and then or there’d be a lot of flack, so we do. We know that most folks don’t take the Sommeliettes seriously, anyway, so it’s OK.

Though I’m the last guy who needs to, I attended a couple of seminars that first day. It was hard to choose which seminars to go to. I really wanted to attend my own seminar most of all. I do love to hear myself speak about wine. Master Sommeliers and Sommeliettes are wine’s ambassadors. Where would the image of wine be without us representing it? Why, people would think wine was easy to understand, that it’s not intimidating. They might think that spending your life accumulating wine knowledge was a complete waste of time—like knowing every character in “Game of Thrones,” or golf. People might buy wines they like rather than wines we tell them to like. Without Master Sommelier and Sommeliettes it would be wine anarchy. You’re welcome.

Like the Burgundy seminar, there’s always a Bordeaux seminar. You must also avoid the Bordeaux seminar. Bordeaux’s nothing special, it’s just Cabernet in lipstick, Merlot in a thong. Don’t choose the Bordeaux seminar! It’s like going to a sushi bar and ordering chicken. Idiot. I passed on the B & B seminars and, instead, attended a seminar on Carignane. Carignane is its French name; in Spain, it’s Cariñena, in South Africa it’s Carinblixen. Whatever you call it, it’s a grape I usually like. But the seminar was a Carign-yawn. Duller than a ten dollar Prosecco. They served six different Carignanes at the seminar, and needed five guys to talk about them. There’s one guy running the Burgundy seminar, and two at the Bordeaux, we need five for Carignane? One guy and a mime would have been enough. I did learn one thing at the Carignane seminar—it’s overrated. It’s the CSW of grapes.

Between seminars there were sponsored luncheons. A winery, or perhaps a regional wine consortium, comes to TexSom and provides a lavish lunch, with plenty of their wine, for the attendees. This is a perfect way to introduce budding sommeliers to their future career as industry freeloaders. I had hoped there might be a seminar about junkets. There wasn’t, but the sponsored luncheons were an adequate replacement. One doesn’t go far in the wine business unless you know how to take advantage of wineries who try to buy your loyalty and affection with food and trips. TexSom wisely showed its attendees how to grab a free lunch and offer nothing in return but an enthusiastic Thank You. This will serve them well in the future.

But you don’t want to hear about other seminars, you want to hear about Larry Anosmia’s seminar, “Natural Wines—Orange is the New Blech.” I was brilliant, though unappreciated by my civilian crowd. I presented ten wines blind and asked the attendees to guess which were “natural,” which were “authentic,” which were “honest,” and which were “the same old crap.” I thought that would be easy. Turns out, without seeing a label, no one could tell. But as soon as I told them which wines were “natural,” everyone decided they liked them better. Wine as boobs. We talked about what makes a wine “natural.” Didn’t take long. The industry standard for what qualifies a wine as “natural” is, “Because I said so.” It’s known as the Riedel Standard, and it’s foolproof. All in all, it was an entertaining and fascinating seminar, and it was clear that all of the attendees learned a lot from me. They both shook my hand afterward, though I think one stole my watch.

No matter what people tell you, TexSom is about wine, wine knowledge, alcohol abuse and exploring your Texan sensuality. Not in that order. I haven’t seen that many wine professionals that drunk since Jon Bonné announced his retirement from the San Francisco Chronicle. It was like a good old fashioned Texas rodeo—only at this one, the clowns far outnumbered the cowboys.

The Wine Time Capsule from 2015

I’m not sure what motivated my ancestor to bury a wine time capsule back in 2015, but I felt that after two hundred years it was time to dig it up. In preparation, I’d been reading up on the history of wine in the 49th Edition of “The World Atlas of Wine” by Hugh Johnson. You’d think Hugh would be pushing up roses by now, but, no, he’s still cranking out sequels. Like all famous wine critics, he has an artificial heart. Well, many are not artificial, but they’re certainly all vestigial. Of course, if you think about it, being a wine critic is just a really bad nose job.

You'll have to pop over to Tim Atkin's site to read what was unearthed in 2215 from the wine time capsule. Strange artifacts from one of wine's worst eras. Though, shit, someone forgot the Coravin. Or everyone did. As ever, feel free to comment on Tim's site, or send me a threatening letter from an attorney here.

TIM ATKIN M.W.

Blind Book Review: Karen MacNeil's "The Wine Bible 2nd Edition"

The only bibles I’ve ever read were television bibles, which are the keys to the characters and plotlines, written by the series’ creators, of individual television series. Television bibles teach us to worship Mammon, and Norman Lear. Mammon has more hit shows. As well as the leading Republican candidate for President. The Bible, capitalized, and usually qualified by the word “Holy,” as in “cow” and “shit,” is a book that, ashamedly, I’ve never read. The publisher refused to send me a review copy. Coincidentally, I haven’t received a review copy of Karen MacNeil’s soon to be released The Wine Bible 2nd Edition either. Which means that I am able to evaluate and criticize it completely objectively, much as wine critics claim to evaluate wine. They’re mostly lying. But they are on the right track. Actually reviewing wines blind is honorable work, though far too humbling to pursue for a living. The many folks who will ultimately review MacNeil’s newer version of The Wine Bible will also claim to have read it. They’re mostly lying, too. This is the beauty of the wine business. We like drinking and lying. Not necessarily in that order.

In her press and on her blog, MacNeil says she “is the only person in the United States to have WON EVERY MAJOR WINE AWARD (her capitalization, which is a lovely measure of journalism in itself) in the English language.” So, fuck you Roederer International Wine Writing Awards! MacNeil hasn’t won a Roederer Award, therefore they are not MAJOR WINE AWARDS by definition. Pretty sure she hasn’t won a Wine Blog Award either, but there’s that damned “MAJOR” in there, so I guess she’s off that particular hook. Not to mention “the English language,” to which most wine blogs have only a vague resemblance. I’ve won three Wine Blog Awards, and they’re to wine writing what lethal injections are to the death penalty. This from a guy who has WON EVERY MAJOR WINE BLOG AWARD in the English language. If there were any.

Wine has more guides than Everest has Sherpas. The Oxford Companion, World Atlas of Wine, A Connoisseurs’ Guide, Essential Guide, a Dummies Guide, an Idiot’s Guide, a Jerk’s Guide, an Asshole’s Guide, Riedel’s Guide (which is a compilation of the previous three)… And all the guides will tell you that buying their guide will help you understand wine. Maybe. But what they really help you understand is that wine is hard to understand, even in alphabetical order. That wine writing is couched in mystical and incomprehensible language, impenetrable metaphors and dumbfounding similes. Which is why wine guides are exactly like The Holy Bible—books that are filled with mythical stories and bizarre language with the intent of making you believe in your own insignificance in the scheme of things. Only MacNeil is the one who figured that out first and grabbed the catchy title, and is now releasing The Wine Bible 2nd Edition. I’m just surprised she didn’t call it The Wine New Testament.

The wine world is expanding faster than Subway’s Jared at the Kid’s Choice Awards. And MacNeil has expanded her guide to cover wines from regions that are new to most wine lovers. There’s a section on Mexican wines, wines derided by Donald Trump as “smuggled into the US by Mexico’s countless grapists.” MacNeil defends Mexican wines, and, in her inimitable voice, calls them, “Up and coming, like your taco truck lunch.” There’s an incisive entry about the wines of China. “Better than you think. Wines to make you smile. The Mao, the merrier.” She even visits the obscure country of Brangelina to taste their wines. “Lovely, pink and effervescent,” she writes, “like Elton John in a hot tub.”

The Wine Bible 2nd Edition is not just for the beginning wine lover, it’s also for experienced wine lovers looking to spend that annoying $25 Amazon gift card just to get rid of it. It’s fun and lively in a way best summed up by the word, “comprehensive.” It’s more than 1000 pages, each numbered! It’s a wine book heaped with praise.

“It’s the greatest wine book I’ve ever seen. Makes me wish I could read.”—Danny Meyer

“A guide that has all the answers—like your annoying 16-year-old.”—Bobby Flay

“You don’t have to be an Idiot or a Dummy to buy this wine guide—but it sure helps!”—Hugh Johnson

Fortunately, I’ve never read the first edition of The Wine Bible. It might have thrown me off. I hear it’s about wine. Endlessly about wine. And I would guess, since I haven’t read it, and thoroughly enjoyed not reading it, that The Wine Bible 2nd Edition even has Ten Commandments.

Thou shalt have no other guides before me.

Thou shalt not make unto thee any trademarked images.

Thou shalt not take the score of the guide, thy God, in vain.

Thou shalt not commit adultery, thou shalt only unscrew.

Thou shalt not stink of ambergris at a wine tasting—perfume is just whale Preparation H.

Thou shalt not steel, especially when making Chardonnay.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s DRC.

Honor thy mother and thy father and thy sommelier.

Thou shalt not kill, except for 100 point wines.

Thou shalt not forget to wipe.

I’m not sure about the last one, but it’s damned fine advice.

A Child's Guide to Wine 2

WHY ARE THERE SO MANY DIFFERENT KINDS OF WINES?
Have you ever noticed how every bottle of wine Mommy brings home from the store is different? Except for the one with that kangaroo on it that she hides and drinks when Daddy’s not around. You know, the one that smells like somebody farted in the kangaroo’s pouch. That’s called Yellow Tail, and you should never put it in your mouth. Also, it means two different things when Mommy says, “I need some Yellow Tail,” and when Daddy says, “I need some Yellow Tail.” This is important to remember so that Daddy doesn’t get in trouble.

There are so many different kinds of wine because there are many different grapes made into wine in many different places in the world. It’s very confusing. Many people spend their lives trying to understand all the gazillion wines there are in the world. These people are called “connoisseurs.” Connoisseur is a French word that means “limpdicked.” One day you’ll understand what that means, and you’ll agree. For now, just think about the kid in your school who eats his own boogers. He’s a connoisseur. Wine has those, too. The really good ones are called “sommeliers.” They know what wine tastes good with nose produce.

Can you guess how many different kinds of grapes there are that make wine? There are more than 6000! Do you know how many 6000 is? Imagine 6000 days. The boy at your older sister’s high school who brought the automatic weapon and shot up the library only barely lived 6000 days. That’s a lot!

Even though there are 6000 grapes, only about six really matter. If you learn about them, you can really impress Mommy and Daddy when they’re drinking their wine. Here are some things you can say about the different wines that matter that will make Mommy and Daddy think you’re a limpdicked connoisseur!

CHARDONNAY
Chardonnay is the white wine Mommy drinks when her girlfriends come over to the house. They drink a lot, and then they get really loud. Mommy tells the same story over and over again and doesn’t even remember that she told it before. When your Grandfather does that, they call him senile and take away his car keys. Don’t worry, Mommy’s not senile. She’s drunk. But still take away her car keys.

Here’s what you say when you see Mommy drinking Chardonnay. “Mommy, you’re drinking Cougar Juice! Are you a Cougar?” Her girlfriends will laugh. Make Mommy explain what a Cougar is. Hint: No matter what she says, it’s not a giant pussy. Or is it?

SAUVIGNON BLANC
Sauvignon Blanc also makes white wine, but is different than Chardonnay. How can that be? Well, the truth is, it isn’t really very different. But grownups like to pretend it’s a lot different. Most white wine tastes exactly the same—like that water in your can of tuna. So when you hear your Mommy’s friend say when the Yellow Tail arrives, “I don’t like Chardonnay, I only drink Sauvignon Blanc,” you say, “Mommy, your friend is a wine racist!” And then tell her you’re going to burn an ah-so in her lawn. If she asks you what an ah-so is, you say, “Someone who only drinks Sauvignon Blanc.”

This will be fun.

MERLOT
Merlot is a red wine that used to be popular, like Justin Bieber. Most of the time it’s light and dull and doesn’t really do much. Same with Merlot. When you see that the bottle of wine Mommy and Daddy are drinking says Merlot on the label, say, “Are we poor? Are we going to have to move to the slums? You’re drinking Merlot!” Then cry like that kid at school who just found out who his real Daddy is.

CABERNET SAUVIGNON
Cabernet is a really popular kind of red wine. A lot of the time, there’s a little bit of Merlot in your Daddy’s Cabernet. So what? Really, if it wasn’t there, no one would even notice. Like when the ugly guy left One Direction. They still sucked. Some of your Mommy and Daddy’s Cabernets might cost a lot of money. Even more than all the twenties you’ve taken from your Mommy’s purse when she’s downstairs drinking Cougar Juice.

When you see a bottle of Cabernet on the dinner table, say, “Am I going to be able to go to college with you drinking that overpriced Napa crap?” Napa is a place in California that is famous for making Cabernet. Rich men move there to make wine and build shrines to themselves like the ancient Egyptian pharaohs. Rich men like fake Tuts.

WHITE ZINFANDEL
I hope your Mommy and Daddy don’t drink White Zinfandel. If they do, you’re probably related to hillbillies. White Zinfandel isn’t a grape. Zinfandel is a grape. White Zinfandel is stupid. It’s like a White Kanye West. You know it’s just going to be pathetic.

White Zinfandel is bright pink. Remember, kids, never put anything that’s bright pink in your mouth. This is just a rule that adults need to know, too. Remind your parents of this if they’re drinking White Zinfandel. “Put it down,” you should scream, “it’s PINK! Don’t put it in your mouth! Are we hillbillies?”

CHAMPAGNE
When Daddy opens a bottle of wine and you hear a POP, he’s opening Champagne. Champagne isn’t a grape. (Isn’t wine confusing? Just wait till you hit puberty!) Champagne is a place in France where the wine they make is called Champagne. I know, this sounds stupid. Hey, they’re French, no one understands. You don’t call where you make poop, “Poop.” You’d think the French would call it “Champagnehole.” But they don’t. But you can.

Champagne is fizzy. This is done on purpose. Again, I know, this sounds stupid. Just about everything about Champagne is stupid. Mommy and Daddy drink it out of little thin glasses and watch the bubbles. How stupid is that? Very. And if you leave the Champagne alone for a while, it goes flat, just like when you trap the cat under the washing machine. But Mommy and Daddy open Champagne when they want to celebrate something special. So when they open a bottle, and you hear the POP, say, “What are you celebrating? Did the vasectomy work?”

More about that another day.